


Castaways

by LadyRhiyana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 12:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16912887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: In which Robert is shipwrecked with only his least-favourite member of the Kingsguard for company. It’s not - quite - like the days of his youth.





	Castaways

**Author's Note:**

> Because the world needs more awkward brothers-in-law interaction between these two. Or at least I do.

It begins like this: 

The court, even removed to Storm’s End, is still as dull and tedious as ever. Lord Arryn is droning on about something – taxes, perhaps, or something equally tangled and complex – but Robert glances longingly out at Shipbreaker Bay below, his attention caught by a gull flying high against the sky. The sun is shining and he is in no mood to listen to the prating of old men. 

He stands up abruptly, and announces that he is going sailing. Jon Arryn, inured to his ways, only shakes his head, sighs and bows. Robert laughs, claps him on the back, and sweeps out of the room, bellowing for wine and food and squires to carry it. 

His two white-cloaked shadows follow, riding discreetly behind him down to the harbour where Renly keeps a little sailing boat moored. Only then, as the squires are loading a basket of food and a large wineskin into the boat, does Ser Barristan Selmy break his silence.

“Your grace,” he says gravely, “are you sure that it’s safe to go out on the bay?”

Jaime Lannister squints up at the sky and looks at the way the banners are fluttering in the wind. He grew up by the sea as well, Robert remembers. 

Well, and so maybe the wind is rising and the waves are a bit restless. But Robert knows this bay, has sailed it in all conditions; he won’t let a little bit of weather get in the way of a good day’s sailing. 

“Never mind all that,” Robert says dismissively. “Which one of you is coming with me? There’s only room for two in the boat.”

Old Selmy and the Kingslayer exchange glances. With a sigh, the Kingslayer looks at the boat, and then again at the sky and the white-caps in the bay. Wordless, he dismounts and begins to take off his white-scaled armour. 

“Ser Jaime,” Robert hears Selmy say in an undertone. “How will you protect the king if you’re –”

“If the king wishes to go out in weather like this, we can’t stop him,” the Kingslayer retorts, almost out of earshot, “but I refuse to drown in full armour in service of his whims.”

** 

There are two battered straw hats in the picnic basket, as ordered, and so Robert fits one over his head before sprawling on his wooden bench, fishing line thrown out over the side. The sun is warm, still, and the breeze is cool and fresh; he takes a long swig from a skin of his best Arbor red and sighs in contentment. 

“Ah, this is the life, Kingslayer,” he says, in an expansive mood. “Good food, good wine, a good boat and good weather.”

His good-brother smiles fake-pleasantly and inclines his head. 

“You know, my father used to take Stannis and I sailing on the bay when we were boys. Our mother always made us wear straw hats as protection against the sun.” He sighs reminiscently, remembering long-gone carefree days. “I don’t suppose Lord Tywin ever took you out on the water?”

The only good thing about being constantly surrounded by the Kingsguard was that they were a captive audience – he could ramble and rant and taunt them all he pleased, and they had to bow politely and smile. But as much as Robert enjoyed taunting Jaime Lannister, he was conscious that there was a dangerous edge to him; a man who had killed one king could too easily imagine killing a second. 

“My uncle Gerion used to take us sailing sometimes,” Lannister says. He squints up at the sun and dons the second straw hat; it doesn’t diminish his damned golden handsomeness one bit. “And we used to run wild in Lannisport. The children of the fisherfolk taught us to swim and how to use small boats.”

With a small shock, Robert realizes that when Lannister says “we” he means himself and Cersei, not his younger brother Tyrion. The thought of Cersei running wild and barefoot through the muddy streets of Lannisport harbour is – inconceivable. 

** 

Clouds mass and gather in the blue sky. The wind comes up and the waves grow choppy and then rough, and Robert is finally forced to acknowledge it’s time to return to harbour. Except by then of course, it’s too late – the light grows eerie, lightning flashes and the low growl of thunder echoes over the water. 

As the storm breaks, driving wind and waves tossing their little boat to and fro like a child’s plaything, Robert stands up and roars his defiance at the sky, throwing his head back and laughing in the face of the storm gods. 

“Come on, damn you!” he roars. “Do your worst!”

The gods oblige. A blinding flash of lightning followed instantaneously by a deafening crash of thunder that echoes in his very bones, and then the heavens open and the driving rain pours down in cascading sheets.

It turns out the Kingslayer really does know his way around boats. He hauls on the sodden, slippery ropes and sets their tiny sail and does his best with Robert to keep the boat afloat and away from the jagged, submerged rocks. Hair and clothes sodden, unsmirking, he’s calm and steady under pressure, and Robert finds he can almost like the man. 

But despite all their hard work, the waves drive them onto the rocks with a grinding crash. The hull splinters and water rushes in through the jagged opening, waves pouring over them, rain lashing them as they try to push themselves off, but it’s no use – they grab everything they can and dive into the calmer water beyond the rocks before they’re swept away – 

But then Robert hits his head, and all goes black. 

** 

He comes back to himself slowly, painfully aware that his head feels like a pounding drum. 

“You’re awake,” a voice says, and he forces his eyes open. 

“Gods, my head,” he groans, sitting up slowly and wincing with every movement. His entire body aches as though he’d fought another battle like the Trident. “What happened?” 

“We hit the rocks,” the voice says, blunt and unapologetic. “You hit your head, and I towed you to shore.”

Jaime Lannister’s face is bruised and he has a cut on his cheek. He’s dressed in nothing more than boots and a salt-stained tunic and breeches, his sword gone and his only weapon a long, narrow dagger; Robert has never seen him so stripped of finery or weaponry. He supposes he doesn’t look like much of a king either. 

“Where are we?” he asks. He gets to his feet slowly. They were on a strip of rocky beach, the waves – calm now, after the fury of the storm – washing gently against the shore. 

The sun had gone down, but the light still lingered; it must still be the same day they had set out from Storm’s End.

“Gods only know,” Lannister says. “On the other side of the bay, I should think.”

“No chance of sailing back, I suppose?” he asks wistfully. But the wreckage of the boat is all too visible on the near-by rocks; it had been smashed to pieces by the relentless driving waves. 

“No, but I managed to salvage what I could from the wreck.” 

What little Lannister had managed to salvage of their possessions lay in a pathetic little heap: the picnic basket, with its skins of wine and its oil-wrapped parcels of bread and meat and cheese; a spare tinder-box; some of the nets and fishing lines, and, of all things, the two battered straw hats. 

** 

They camp on the shore for the night. Lannister gathers driftwood for a fire and Robert wrestles with flint and steel before finally managing a spark. When the last light fades into true night, the temperature drops and a cold breeze comes up; they huddle around the fire for warmth, sharing out the oil-wrapped parcels from the picnic basket and passing the wine skin back and forth. 

The more he drinks, the more Robert finds himself enjoying his current – albeit unexpected – predicament. The fire is warm and crackling, the stars shine brightly above them, and the sound of the waves is relaxing and hypnotic. He’s living beneath the sky once more, like he did in his youth; he could almost pretend that he had no throne and no duties to return to, no pressing worries about crushing debt or quarrelling houses. 

He could almost pretend he was still the boy who had loved a wild Northern girl, not the man who had won the throne and wed a raging, haughty lioness. 

Now all he needed was his old friend, Ned – 

But Ned was in the frozen North, and he has only the Kingslayer for companionship.

“I don’t suppose Lord Tywin ever took you hunting, either,” he says, revisiting their earlier conversation. “He doesn’t strike me as the type.”

Lannister’s eyes are very green in the firelight. “Uncle Gerion took us hunting once.” He grins, a flashing glimpse of genuine amusement. “Cersei hated it.”

(Again, Robert thinks: us. But he’s drunk, and the thought passes.) 

They pass the time drinking and talking idly of hunting and horses, of hounds and hawks, all the things Robert once discussed with Ned and his particular friends but had never thought to discuss with Jaime Lannister. If, sometimes, Robert strays into talk of whores, Lannister only smiles; if, sometimes, Jaime speaks of himself and Cersei as “us” and “we” Robert thinks it’s only because they are twins, and twins are always close. 

**

In the morning they set out on foot, heading up the shore in the hope of finding a trail of some sort to lead them to a village or a town where they can find aid. 

The sun is bright and warm, and Robert is red-faced and sweating within the hour, gasping for breath. “Gods,” he groans, bending over to put his hands on his knees, “oh Gods, I’ve gotten too fat. Too old, and too fat.”

Even Lannister looks pained; his boots were made for riding, not walking. Like most knights he was a creature of horseback, and rarely ever walked when he could ride. 

They stop for breath and to try to find their bearings; Robert eventually concludes that they are about two days ride from Storm’s End. That is, of course, if they can find horses somewhere. 

They come upon the outlaws as they’re walking through a thickly forested vale. The first indication is the sudden flight of birds in the distance; Lannister’s head comes up and his eyes narrow at the sudden disturbance. Then they hear birds calling closer at hand and the faint jingling of bit and bridle. 

They exchange glances. Lannister grasps hold of Robert’s arm and pulls him into the trees, drawing his dagger softly from its sheath. 

There are five of them, mounted on indifferent horses and clad in rusting and poorly-fitting mail. Their weapons are sharp enough though; swords and knives and a man with a war-hammer like the one Robert had wielded in his youth. 

He looks at Lannister, armed with only a dagger, and cocks his head in question. Whatever else he may be, Jaime Lannister is of the Kingsguard, one of the best fighters in Westeros. 

Robert wants to get back to Storm’s End. He’s sick and tired of walking. 

He wants those horses. 

Lannister looks back at him, green eyes glinting, and smiles with perfect, murderous confidence. 

** 

In the end, it’s almost too easy. 

Clad in his torn, salt-stained tunic and breeches, armed only with a dagger, Robert’s too-handsome, smirking good-brother cuts one of the outlaws down before they realize they’re even under attack. Seizing the outlaw’s sword, he turns on the others – and that’s when Robert attacks with a roar, dumping the one with the war-hammer from his horse and wresting the weapon from him. 

Gods, it makes him feel almost young again, bellowing with laughter as he swings his stolen hammer at the outlaws, knocking them down with great sweeping blows. Lannister kills his second and third in quick succession, and Robert breaks through another’s guard and staves in his ribs with a victorious shout. The last man scrambles fearfully to his feet, eyes darting wildly at the men who had ambushed him and his comrades; he takes to his heels and flees, but not quickly enough to escape Lannister’s sword through his back. 

“Ha!” Robert exclaims, clapping Lannister on the back. “Damn me, but you’re good!” 

Lannister inclines his head, his smile razor-sharp as he wipes the blood off his sword. “Thank you, your Grace.” 

They take the horses for their own. 

**

It takes them two more days to return to Storm’s End. 

The wine and their food runs out on the first day, and they have to settle for water and whatever they can forage for themselves. Robert snares a fat rabbit and Lannister skins it with easy competence, and they eat it still hot from the fire, blowing on their fingers and grease running down their chins. 

On the second day they find a village. Their clothes are torn and faded and they bear no identifying marks, but it’s Lannister they recognize and not Robert – even battered and shipwrecked, he looks like the Warrior incarnate.

The villagers give them food and drink and offer to guide them back to Storm’s End, and Robert is all too happy to accept. 

By the time they’re back in sight of the fortress, Robert is ready to swear that he will never again venture out of reach of a quick rescue. His bones ache and he’s tired of sleeping rough; he’s tired of Lannister’s constant companionship – the man is competent enough in the wild, and damned good in a fight, but he’s still a Lannister, and something about him grates on Robert’s nerves. 

When the gates open for them and John Arryn comes to welcome him back, Robert engulfs the old man in a bone-crushing embrace. Cersei, too, has come to welcome him – she greets him with a cool, composed smile and outstretched hands. As she thanks her brother for bringing her husband home to her safely, something – unreadable – passes between them, even as she kisses Lannister on the cheek in sisterly welcome. 

But Robert is home, and he calls for food and wine and a hot bath, in that order, and then, finally, his own bed.


End file.
